


Walking In The Crystal's Light (FFXIV Writing Challenge 2017)

by lilithqueen



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Au Ra Xaela (Final Fantasy XIV), Elezen (Final Fantasy XIV), Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), F/M, Garleans (Final Fantasy XIV), Gen, Hyur (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te (Final Fantasy XIV), Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2018, ishgard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 19:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16960404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: Last year's ffxivwrite prompt challenge got me to write a lot about my alts. This year, I'm getting around to posting the results. Attached please find a handful of adventurers, one chocobo jockey, one masked vigilante, and a Respectable Ishgardian Priest.





	1. Specter (Portia Brewster)

**Author's Note:**

> For more character writing/aesthetic/etc, come find me at [ffxiv-swarm.](http://ffxiv_swarm.tumblr.com/)

Portia, once oen Gallius, stood on the shores of Silvertear Lake and watched the sun set. The wreck of the _Agrius_ , even now wrapped in the great dragon’s death coils, loomed above the surface of the water like the tower of a castrum; she found she could not tear her eyes away.

Her father had hugged her and ruffled her hair before shipping out, vowing to return soon. There hadn’t even been a body to send home.

She closed her eyes.

_Garlemald takes what we love._

Petros had knelt at her feet, proffering a ring on one freezing cold morning; she still remembered the way his new uniform gleamed in the sunlight, as bright as his smile. There’d been one last kiss, too brief, before the VIIth had deployed to Eorzea. To Carteneau.

Turning the ring over in her pocket, Portia Brewster turned and walked away.


	2. Synthetic (Ritanelle Soleil)

Carbuncles weren’t _real_ , of course. They were aetherial constructs, created from arcane geometry and gemstone-imbued ink on specially treated pages. It wasn’t good to get attached or start treating them like pets, or it might interfere with your job as an assessor.

Not that this stopped _anyone_ at the Arcanists’ Guild, of course. Ritanelle had only been studying there for a few weeks, but she’d quickly learned that, in a city of pirates, most of the rules were really more like guidelines. Her brand-new emerald carbuncle—more of a pale blue than green, actually, she wasn’t sure she’d used the right stone—was absolutely the cutest thing she’d ever seen. As it put a paw on her leg and leaned up to sniff her hand, she had to stifle a quiet squeal of delight. “Oh, look at you, you’re adorable!”

“Prrt?”

And it _chirped_. Giggling, she scratched it behind the ears and decided that, real or not, it was her new best friend.


	3. The Twelve (Evrard Briardionne)

Scorching summers, hot and damp, and the insects carrying diseases that could wipe out whole neighborhoods in the Brume before anyone in the upper city deigned to notice. _Halone, preserve us._

Metal and crystal screaming through the southern sky, an unleashed primal’s fury witnessed from behind stone walls. No mention of those Eorzeans who fell to stop it, though they fell in battle against the most terrible dragon of all. _Thank the Fury, we are spared._

Cold autumn, colder winter, and a spring that never comes. Crops freeze, children freeze, stone cracks in the ice, and the dragons take the rest. A church in the Brume sells its gold and burns its wooden pews. _Halone, blessed Fury, spare us Your wrath!_

A heretic leads her army to Ishgard, breaking the very gates. All Ishgard owes its survival to the adventurers who lent their strength to the fight, but it came too late for those who lost homes and lives in the lower city. The Enchiridion is a most sacred book, and it makes most sacred kindling to keep the survivors warm. _They were no knights, but yet they walk in the Fury’s halls now._

Nidhogg lies slain, and the heretic queen calls for peace—but while her followers are content to lay down their arms and go as brothers, the inquisitors bring their fire and fury, and blood is spilled in the darkest corners of the Brume. A poor priest, unused to combat, trembles as he stares down at the broken body of the white-robed wolf who would have savaged his flock. _Halone, forgive me._

The war ends. The heretic sacrifices herself, so that the war might end—and in so doing, tears down the very foundation of the most holy Ishgardian Orthodox Church, for King Thordan and his knights twelve were no heroes, but traitors and murderers. The darkness of a thousand years is washed away, and the windows thrown wide to let in the light of peace—but what a cruel and harsh light! _Blessed Fury, guide me, for my castle’s stones were set on sand._

And then the city burns. The people are lost, confused, and at the mercy of honorable Fury-fearing men who would sooner see them dead than join hands with their ancient foes in peace; when they are lead to the Basilica, they fear nothing until the doors slam shut and weapons are drawn. A priest runs through the city, praying for Halone to deliver them, that the poorest of his flock might be saved from depredation. _Fury, save them!_

A girl is thrown from the highest roof of the Vault.

A priest looks up, and the shadow of a white dragon’s wings fall over him.


	4. Self-editing (Ritanelle Soleil)

Rinette Habelliard is a good Gridanian girl. Well...she tries, at least. She says _please_ and _thank you_ and bows her head politely to the Seedseers who keep the Greenwrath away. Even though she gets scary headaches and weird dreams, she keeps a smile on her face. (She’s not as successful at not talking back to the Wood Wailers, but some of them are _really mean_.)

Rinette Habelliard is a Duskwight, and everyone in Gridania knows what that means. You keep your head down, you don’t make trouble, and you work hard, and nothing bad should happen to you. If it does...well, that’s your own fault. The elementals don’t _really_ want you here, you know. (She knows. She _knows_ that. When she asks her brother why they don’t go and live in a cave, since nobody wants them in the city, he frowns at her and tells their parents, who scold her. Living in caves is not what civilized folk do.)

Rinette Habelliard is _not_ a thief, no matter what the Wood Wailers say. They work with her older brother, after all, so they should know better. But then there’s rough bark snagging her clothing and a knife at her throat, and she knows she’s about to be a lesson in why Duskwights shouldn’t go around thinking they’re as good as the rest. And she wants to _live_. (Blood on her hands, a glassy-eyed stare, a bolt of flame conjured from nothing at the lookout who tried to run. She doesn’t notice her own wounds until later.)

Rinette Habelliard is a murderer, and her family’s shame.

Ritanelle Soleil is a Scion of the Seventh Dawn, Echo-blessed, with the power to slay eikons and take their aether for her own.

And if she wears a mask in Gridania, it’s only because she suffers from highly unfortunate allergies, thank you very much.


	5. Prank (Q'sevet Tia)

The sun was warm on his face; the sea breeze kept it from being uncomfortably hot. Q’sevet rocked his hammock lightly with one bare foot and drifted in a comfortable haze, half-asleep. _The new man at the Drowning Wench has a wonderful smile; maybe I should say hello next time…_

Something touched his dangling tail, and he growled quietly and flicked it. _Go away._

Light footsteps, running away quickly, and he wedged one eye open to glare at the rapidly retreating backs of two small hyur children. “I’m not a housecat, you little brats! Hrmph.”

He wouldn’t discover that his tail had been dipped in ink until much later.


	6. Identification (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

Her tribal lands were far to the western edges of the steppes, perilously close to Imperial territory. Gantsetseg walked through Reunion, tail twitching anxiously, and kept an eye out for their colors anyway. It was a gamble, but nearly _every_ tribe passed through the town at some point, didn’t they? Indeed, her horns were assailed on all sides by the different accents and dialects—there a Dazkar selling buuz, here an Oronir trading horses. She did not hear her tribe in the cacophony.

The Mol, she soon discovered, did not know where they might be. Nor did the Adarkim, the Dotharl, or the Buduga. In the shadow of Bardam’s Mettle, she closed her eyes in despair.

Metal creaked. The smell of ceruleum drifted past her nose.

_No._

She drew her gun, affixing its gauss barrel. By the time the Garlean scouting party knew what was happening, she was already among them, dancing one beat away from their blades and magitek. Whether or not she ever found her tribe, she’d make sure their name was heard.

“ _You face a warrior of the Bayaqud!”_


	7. Broken Leaf (Rrisya Otombe)

Rrisya Otombe looked down at the corpse at her feet and sighed, shaking her head. “You were warned. Over and over again, you were _warrrned_. Any decent man would have changed his ways. Of course, a trrruly decent man wouldn’t have needed the warning.”

He had been cruel, hiding behind his wooden mask and the spear of his office to bully and torment the very people he should have been protecting. One of her cousins had come to her, crying, and so she had done what was right. He’d been too arrogant, too sure of his own safety, to see her coming—but she’d missed her first killing blow, and he’d had the nerve to defend himself. Their brief struggle had crushed leaves underfoot and left her with a cut across her nose, but she’d had speed and fury on her side.

The Wailers said that the elementals, though weakened by the Calamity, could still rise in fury at spilled blood. They were not Keepers, who followed the old ways properly and knew how to appease the spirits without bowing and scraping to the Seedseers. Even a vicious and savage man still needed the right words, though he didn’t deserve them. _This is for my family. My people._

“From the earth.” A deep breath, and she closed his dead eyes. “Returned to earth.”

The leaf litter would cover him, and the creatures that lived in it would feast. Balance was restored.


	8. Shadows (Ritanelle Soleil)

Wind moaning through the trees, high and eerie and sounding like a woman in pain. The branches move with it, scratching at the sky and blotting out the sun. No. No, the sun is _setting_ , fading from view, and it is so very dark in the woods now. A girl huddles, curled around a single spark of flame, and prays for morning. It’s not so bad then. If she stays still and quiet, if she’s _good_ , then she’ll live to see it.

It doesn’t matter if she’s good. The gray pallor of her skin marks her as surely as does the white-ink tattoo on her face, and it’s not the wind moving the branches anymore. Roots shudder and shake, rising from the ground as the trees throw off their torpor like heavy blankets. The earth trembles as they walk, seeking. Searching. For her. And she’s no godslayer now, no Scion, but a sickly and furious and _helpless_ young maiden, scrabbling in the dirt—the dirt is safe, if she can get to bare rock there will be no forests, no trees, and she can rest—

The shifting shadows of leaves fall on her face, and she sees her death coming. And she screams.

She barely notices when she wakes, even though it’s accompanied by the hard thump of her falling out of bed; all that matters is that she has to get to safety, has to get away from the trees, and so she scrambles underneath the massive four-poster and presses her face to the dusty carpet. Slowly—too slowly—her heart stops trying to hammer its way out of her chest.

_I knew I should have closed the curtains._


	9. Linkpearl (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

_Ding_. “Oi, Bert, what’d you say--”

 _Ding_. Garlean radio station, a language she didn’t speak—though the tune _was_ catchy, fast and brassy.

 _Ding_. Static.

 _Ding_. The faint sounds of chocobos in the distance.

 _Ding_. “Seven bells, mulch the garden--”

 _Ding_. Snatches of song, someone half-humming an old folk tune as they walked.

 _Ding_. “Understood. We move on the crystals as soon as--”

“Oh, thank the _Twelve_. Sorry I’m late, I forgot the frequency—which team am I on?”

A heavy sigh over the link. She adjusted the wire wrapped around the base of her horn in time to hear her boss’s voice ring out. “You’ll be providing cover, Gantsetseg. I trust you set the charges?”

“Oh, yeah—everything’s ready. On your mark, boss!”

As the Scions swept into the fray, Gantsetseg grinned. She _loved_ her job.


	10. Slap (Ritanelle Soleil)

Ishgard was changing—for the better, as far as Ritanelle was concerned—but the mood in the lower taverns was far from celebratory. Laborers and merchants huddled over their drinks, speaking in low voices, and didn’t look up when the door slammed open as she and her friends swept in. It hovered in the back of her mind, a wrong note in the city’s symphony, as they ordered drinks and crowded around her, badgering her for tales of Azys Lla.

“...No, really, you’d hate it—well, unless you like Allagan technology trying to kill you. And...” She remembered the gunshots, the terror, an explosion into aether. Her bowl of beet stew tasted like ash in her mouth.

“And?”

She took a deep breath. She could speak of this, at least. “And the Garleans—the Imperials. We—I think we drove them off, but if it hadn’t been for Ysayle...” She wasn’t going to cry. She was _not_.

Unfortunately, the man—some friend of a friend, whose name she’d forgotten but who wore blind arrogance like a cloak—was not the most observant in the Holy See. “Ysayle? Oh, you mean _Iceheart_ —good riddance, if you ask me—“

“I say, old boy, that’s a bit--”

She stood up so fast she nearly knocked over her wine, lunging across the table. The sound of her palm connecting with his face rang out across the room; as he reeled, she snarled, “She died to save us! She died to save us, and she wanted to stop the war, and she loved _moogles_ —”

Oh. Now she was crying. Wonderful. The others at her table—quicker to act, or maybe not wanting to cause a public scene—grabbed her new nemesis under each arm, hustling him out into the cold. (As she wiped her eyes, she swore she saw one of them deal him a good hard smack upside the ear, and resolved to buy the next round.)


	11. Mercy vs. Justice (Evrard Briardionne)

A sensible priest, one who put his own health above the welfare of his congregation—for, after all, you could not tend to your flock if you were dead—would have stayed inside so soon after the struggle and subsequent eggshell-thin peace between a small army of heretics and the most sacred and holy Temple Knights, especially when the fighting within the very gates of Ishgard had barely died down. But nobody had ever called Evrard Briardionne a sensible man.

Besides, the whispers couldn’t be ignored. A priest heard every rumor within his congregation, and these were enough to chill the blood even moreso than the wind did. That it had been his own people, men and women of the Brume, who had flung open the gates to the heretics; worse yet, that the inquisitors would be hunting down the perpetrators. The first he refused to believe, for none of his people deserved death, but the second…

It didn’t matter if he believed it. If he did not protect them, the inquisitors’ righteous fury would fall upon the innocents and guilty alike. Halone would sort them out hereafter, but they would take their time arranging the meeting. He’d stood in the chapel doorway for hours, knuckles pale on his staff; when no gleaming white robes made themselves known, he began to walk. They would start with the poorest first, but even the Grand Inquisitor himself would probably hesitate before offering insult to those sheltering within the very walls of the chapel.

_And if he does not?_

… _I will not allow him to._

Snow crunched underfoot. The only sounds were his own breathing, his own heartbeat. They were too loud.

Someone screaming. “Please, we’ve done nothing—!”

“That is for the Fury to judge. If you are innocent, you will walk in Her halls. It will surely be better than this…squalid…existence.” The crackle of flames.

He broke into a dead run, rounded the corner at speed—there, at the end of the dark alleyway, a man in the silken robes of an inquisitor held a flaming staff in one hand and the arm of a struggling woman in the other.

He’d taken top marks in all his thaumaturgy courses at the Scholasticate. The first wave of ice shards sliced across the inquisitor’s shoulder, making him drop the woman with an offended snarl of pain; as she scrambled into the shadows of the alley, Evrard advanced. “How _dare_ you, sir.”

The inquisitor stared at him. In the firelight, his eyes were black holes, but there was enough light to make out his utterly stunned expression, his shock at being so accosted by a lowly priest. “You presume to interfere with the workings of the Inquisition, Father? To strike a most holy inquisitor? I came here seeking heretics—I did not think to find them in the robes of a priest!”

“You sought no heretics.” He took a deep breath, though the air stabbed his lungs like knives as the temperature plummeted around him. “You sought a purge, to scour the Brume with flame—following in the footsteps of your master. This ends. Now.” Icicles crystallized in the air as he took a step forward, gaze fixed on his opponent. “Swear to raise neither hand nor spell nor word against these good people, who have little enough besides their faith in the Fury, and you may go in peace.”

“Peace?” He sneered, shaking his head. “You _are_ a heretic. They will have peace and succor in Halone’s halls if they are as good as you claim, and sending them there—why, it would be a mercy, would it not?”

He thought of Maelie, with her bad arm. Old Madame Leirresaux, with three grandchildren to support. The Richters, who never came to services but who always set aside a bowl of thin soup for him when he visited.  _Halone, lend me Your strength, that I may be your just and righteous hand. And...forgive me, for what I am about to do._

He lifted his staff, and the ice flew.


	12. Caste (Rrisya Otombe)

“Don’t bother with her, she’s just a Keeper.”

“Hey, kitten—catch any mice today?”

“Forgive me, Miss…Otombe, yes? The Lancer’s Guild is no longer recruiting, come back next moon.”

She turned her mind inward, letting the voices fade as she attuned to the aetheryte. The Wailers thought they owned the forest; the Gridanians thought they had bonded with it. They didn’t  _know_ it, not like her people did. W _e have lived and hunted under these trees for a thousand thousand generations, and you call us savages and lawbreakers._

Rootslake was damp, cold, dangerous, and lightly infested with morbols, but—crucially—the Wailer presence there was thin and easily bribed, and they so very rarely thought to climb trees in search of quietly-living Keepers. She clambered through the branches as she had done for years, eyes searching for her goal. It was possible—unlikely, but possible—that they’d moved since last week.

There. A polished chocobo skull, draped with hanging feathers and scarves, gleamed in the dim green light.

She cleared her throat. “Grandmother? Auntie? I’ve come for my lessons.”

The lancers wouldn’t take her, and she was no conjurer. Armed with the rituals that had been passed down through the Otombe clan, she didn’t have to be.

The forest would provide, as it always had.


	13. Wounded Animal (Portia Brewster)

“ _Look after your dog_ , you said. _Please_ , you said, _she won’t be much trouble_.” Even complaining to an empty room made Portia feel better, though she cursed herself and Vesper for not buying linkpearls. It would have made her job so much easier. “I work twelve bells at the docks, I come home, and I have to share an apartment with _this?_ ”

At her feet, Macchia—over a hundred ponzes of purebred Ilsabardian war hound, with a bite that could crush a man’s skull like an egg—whined pitifully and nudged her hip. The apartment had been spotless when she’d left that morning, but evidently Macchia had gotten bored; the chair cushions were a distant memory, and one table leg had been chewed to near-splinters. She glowered down at the dog. “Don’t look at me like that. You are a _very bad puppy_.”

She hadn’t thought Macchia could look sadder, but there it was. She felt like a heel. Worse, the hound’s tail was thumping steadily on the floor. “…And now I suppose you want food and a walk.” _Venditor, do you have any idea how hard it is to maneuver through a small apartment with a dog glued to your hip? No, because you’re delegating this to me._

At least she hadn’t found the sack of dried meat while Portia was out. It wasn’t the cheapest way to feed anything the size of Macchia, but the _actual_ cheapest options were bread and parts of the fish she wouldn’t even want to feed to a seagull. (Really, sometimes she wondered if Eorzeans really _were_ savages.) So, meat it was. Macchia was too well-trained to lunge for the bag, but she’d been taught since puppyhood that laserlike focus and a soft, pleading look could get treats out of the most sour-faced decurion, and Portia could only resist by avoiding looking in her direction. It was the most delicate maneuver she’d performed since her desertion.

_Alright, food in the bowl, bowl on the floor…_

She stepped back; she had a moment to register that she’d collided with something warm, and then Macchia yelped and scrambled away, claws clicking on the wood. She froze. _I am scum._

And then unfroze, kneeling down to present a less potentially-threatening silhouette. Carefully, she extended the bowl of jerky. “Awww, _pup_ …”

Macchia whined, wedging herself further into the corner, and Portia winced. “Well. Alright. I’ll just leave your food here, pup, and you can eat.”

Only later, when Macchia trotted to the door with her braided leather leash and a hopeful expression, did she find it in herself to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact about macchia: portia has taught her to sit and shake paws to stop her jumping up and licking peoples' faces. It doesn't always work.


	14. Wit (Ritanelle Soleil, Emmanellain de Fortemps)

“So _she_ says, forget about me—stick it in the chocobo!”

“Wait—wait, I’ve got a better one.”

“Speak up!”

“No, no—shh, come closer, that guy in the plate is looking at us. Shh! _Don’t turn around._ Alright, why don’t vultures go after inquisitors?”

“I’m sure I’ve heard this one.”

“…Professional courtesy.”

“That is _awful_.”

“Did you hear the one about the dragoon’s lance?”

“I’ve heard _every_ one about dragoons and their lances—why are you all looking at me like that?”

“I know you usually spend time with hardened adventurers, old girl, but you must admit that normally an arcanist with a book and pencil to hand is not a reassuring sight!”

“…I’m taking _notes_. Should I meet Ser Wyrmblood again, I want to see if I can get him to turn the same color as his mail.”

“You truly are fearless. Alright! So, there was this dragoon…”

And then the bells started to ring; the Dravanians had been sighted, and war was on the horizon. Rita swore so savagely that the nobleman at her elbow blanched. _Didn’t even get to finish my mead._

She’d get Emm to finish that joke later.


	15. Doppelganger (Ritanelle Soleil (?), Lancifer Habelliard)

“I’m looking for my sister—oh, here’s a sketch. She’s about yea high—well, she was when I saw her but she might have grown since then. It’s been a few years.” _Three. She’s probably dead._ “Brown hair—like mine, but her eyes are greener. She always wears these black iron ear clasps…” _And she was so proud when she got them, with their so-very-traditional vine etchings, and I told her she ought not to wear them so much. I told her that. Matron, forgive me._ “Please—it’s very important, if you see anyone that looks like her, _please_ tell me. She’s sickly, and she’s got our parents terribly worried.”

They had been, at first. But now, three years later…oh, they had mourned, of course, and Lancifer knew they missed her, but it had been so easy in their shattered grief to simply accept what his fellow Wailers had told them. That Rinette was a murderer, that she’d been arrested for thievery and stabbed her way out, that _if_ she was still alive she’d have to answer for her crimes. Better for her to be dead than for her own brother’s comrades to have to execute her.

The Wailers had exchanged looks when he’d told them, thinking he hadn’t noticed. Their lack of faith galled him, but he knew what they were thinking. It was what every good Gridanian thought. _She’s a Duskwight, after all. ‘Twould be no surprise._

The adventurer was shaking her head, walking away; Lancifer leaned back against the canyon wall with a sigh. He wished he’d been stationed nearer to the market stalls. _Surely—if she’s alive, she’d need coin, and someone might at least recognize her face. She can’t possibly have killed Terremont and Ailebert. She was always wild and needed discipline, but she’d never go so far. The Seedseers will prove her innocence, and she can come home…_

There was an elezen woman crossing the bridge. She wore a carved wooden mask, horns curling back over her wavy brown hair; the skin revealed below it was peach tinged with gray, and there were iron clasps at her long ears. Even with her heeled boots, she would certainly be shorter than him.

He barely dared to raise his voice, but no force on earth would have stopped him calling out, “Rinette?”

She kept walking.


	16. Ceruleum (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

With an earthshaking crash, the magitek reaper crumpled to its knees and fell over. Its rider leaped clear, but before he could aim his gunblade Gan put an arrow through his throat.

In the dim blue fog that gave the region its name, the only sounds were her labored breathing and the wheezing of her marauder companion picking herself up off the ground. Finally, she found her voice again. “That’s the last of them.” Azim’s dick, she hated her accent in Common.

“For now.” The marauder—a Roegadyn woman with a name Gan had shortened to Bryda immediately because the rest of it was _too damned long_ —leaned on her axe, glaring at the Imperial corpses scattered around the field. “We’d best hurry before more of them come. Do you think that reaper will still run once you take the arrows out?”

She blinked slowly at her. “…I’d…hope not? Why?”

Bryda’s bloodthirsty grin reminded her of her cousins, though with fewer teeth. “Your Scions need gil, don’t they? Magitek sells for a lot—assuming it works, of course, though even if it doesn’t you can still melt it down for scrap. Mark our location, and we’ll come back later.”

She thought of cermet drills, cannons. The screams of her tribe, Xaela and horses bleeding on the grass as the Garleans swept through. Being trapped in the hold of a stinking train for weeks until a rockslide had freed her, malms from home. She thought of how easily the Garleans had died once she’d peeled their armor away, of how easier still they’d die if their own guns were turned on them. _In battle do our souls burn bright, and I intend mine to blaze._

“…I don’t think we’re going to sell it. Do you know anyone that could help me learn to steer?”


	17. Fate (Evrard Briardionne)

They were Halone’s children, her chosen people. Their every action in her name, sanctified.

_(blood on stone, bodies hurled broken from the precipice)_

Their war was just. The dragons meant to destroy them all; it was their duty to take up arms and defend their city.

_(betrayers. murderers. a wrath that transcended death, and all for one man’s lust for power)_

They would be glorious. Fate had decreed it, and so it could not be otherwise.

Evrard, working steadily through his third cup of cheap Gyr Abanian beer and trying not to scratch the bandages on his leg, did not feel particularly fated or glorious. In fact, he thought sourly, if _this_ was his fate then he rather wanted a word with Nymeia. _Go to Gyr Abania, I thought. Help the downtrodden, I thought. Show the Garleans exactly why they ought to leave well enough alone. But I cannot do it by myself, and ‘tis just my ill fortune that I should be so injured in my first engagement._

“Guess you’ll move out of the next blast, thaumaturge?”

He raised his head, glaring at the miqo’te at the next table. “I was _trying_ to cast. I don’t seem to recall you being especially light on your feet.”

“That was then.” The man tapped the hilt of an ornate sword at his hip. “Unlike some people, _I_ know when my way’s not working. Have you ever heard of red magic?”

He set his beer down. Thaumaturgy was lethal, capable of transforming the caster’s own aether into astonishingly destructive power, but it took time and focus; in battle, every second counted. _I never had the stomach for it before…but now…_

“Go on. And my name’s _Evrard_ , thank you.”


	18. Self-Control (Ritanelle Soleil/Emmanellain de Fortemps)

“I’m never going to drink _ever again_. This is it. I give up.”

“Believe it or not, nobody told you to match me glass for glass. I wonder that you even tried.”

“I kill _primals_.”

“Mead doesn’t care. Here, have some water…”

“Ugh. Thank you. I still hate you, though, you should’ve stopped me!”

“I did _not_ think you’d move on to vodka. And I carried you back to the manor, did I not? You’re welcome.”

“Arse.”

“So I take it you don’t feel up to breakfast, then. Too bad, there are those crepes you like.”

“ _Get out of my way_. And—seven hells, this is your shirt again, isn’t it.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘this is more comfortable, I’m stealing it.’”

“It _is_ more comfortable. Ah, to hell with it, I’ll deal with your brother’s stuffed-chocobo-arse face later.”

“…Hmm.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I was only thinking that, well—if you met my friends tonight, as I’ve been trying to arrange for simply _weeks_ now and which you’ve tried to wriggle out of _every time_ , you could entirely avoid having to deal with my dear brother at all.”

“…If your friends say anything stupid, I am not responsible for my reaction.”

“I shall graciously blame it on the alcohol.”


	19. Battle of Wills (Q'sevet Tia)

“Q’seris. Give.”

The chocobo squawked, scratching one talon over the shiny dagger sheath that had fallen in the straw by her feet. The shiny dagger sheath which, apparently, was her new favorite toy. Q’sevet sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Serry. C’mon, buddy, move so I can pick it up. It’s not for ‘bos.”

“Kweh!”

Apparently it _was_ for ‘bos. He decided to change tack, stomping over to the feedbag and offering a handful of gysahl greens. “Here, this is tasty, isn’t it? You gotta get up to eat it, though. Come on…”

“…Kweh…” Her long, fluffy neck stretched out; Q’sevet held the greens just out of reach, watching as the bird levered her golden bulk to an upright position. He barely dared to breathe as she took first one step, then the next—and then trotted over, leaning over the stall divider to nip the greens out of his hand.

 _Thank the gods._ But he knew he had to be fast—while Serry ate, he bounded over the partition, diving for the discarded sheath and scrambling back over the wall before the bird noticed. He hadn’t been pleased to discover chocobos tended to be territorial.

“Kweh?”

Q’sevet held himself very still as Serry, having finished her snack, preened his ear with her sharp beak. “Aww. We’re friends, fluff?”

In answer, the bird headbutted him lightly; he couldn’t help but grin as he scratched her neck. “I guess we are!”


	20. Blending In (Portia Brewster)

Portia’s shoulder still hurt. She’d lost track of how long she'd been walking—hours, at least. The sun was rising, burning away some of the fog but not doing much for the damp chill that bit through her stolen adventuring gear. _That_ was a hideous amalgamation of leather and chainmail, but it covered the remains of her uniform. The adventurer wasn’t going to need it anymore.

_Fire. Blood. The acrid stench of ceruleum. The screams as they realized no one was ever coming to help them._

Some proud soldier of Garlemald she’d been. She'd hid in a bunker for hours, only daring to run when it sounded like most of the fighting had died down. She'd been wrong; the thaumaturge had taken her by surprise. _My good fortune he was around my size. And he had a hat._ Which was slipping down her forehead, but at least it hid her third eye.

Ahead of her, she could just make out a small group of people clustered around a chocobo carriage, and took a moment to study their silhouettes. _Not Garlean. They wouldn’t be looking so unconcerned if they were._ She hunched over, putting a hand to her injured shoulder, and staggered forward. _I can’t avoid everyone I meet._

“Hey there!” Good, one or two of them were looking in her direction. “Any room on that caravan for a poor ‘venturer heading south?”

“Might be.” Tall, male, elezen, and snooty-looking. “This adventurer got a name?”

She took a breath. “Portia.”

She'd figure out the rest later.


	21. Wind (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

_Three swift things there are, swiftest in the world._

_Thought._

_A stallion in his prime._

_The wind on the steppe._

Gantsetseg took a breath, filling her lungs with the cold air. Under her, the padded wood of her saddle warmed faintly; she could feel her horse shift from hoof to hoof, eager to be off, but she held back. It wouldn’t do to wear him out yet, after all. They still had malms to cover before the Naadam. _Would that this win was under Bayaqud banners._ (The Mol and their adventurers _would_ win. She refused to lose to the twice-damned Oronir.)

A horn sounded the signal, and they moved forward as one.


	22. Monster (Rrisya Otombe, Ritanelle Soleil)

“Did you hear? They say the voidsent out of Amdapor got another Wailer.”

“I dunno if that was Amdapor. They usually don’t go for bone lances.”

“You don’t think…one of their own?”

“I heard the bloke was a right bastard, wouldn’t surprise me. Though word on the street was that he was seein' voidsent around every corner, like somethin' was hauntin' him.”

“…Maybe it was. You know, they say there’s something in those woods comes up from the desert. If you’re a decent sort, it leaves you alone. But if you ain’t…”

Rrisya sat in the corner of the bar, sipping slowly at her glass of thin beer, and smiled. Meeting Ritanelle had been a blessing. And on cue, her linkpearl chimed.

“ _Some people can’t take a hint.”_


	23. Standing In Line (Portia Brewster)

Honestly, Portia still couldn’t believe she’d made it to Limsa Lominsa in one piece. The adventurers’ caravan had taken her to Horizon, but she’d had to hitch a ride to Vesper Bay with a chocobo courier (which had been _terrifying_ ; she’d spent the whole trip clinging to the brim of her hat). And then there’d been the boat, which…well. She’d at least only thrown up once. Limsa’s spires had been a relief to see, at first.

And then she’d seen the gates. And the line in front of them.

The line she’d now been waiting in for _bells_ , rucksack slung over her shoulder, occasionally inching forward when it moved. From what little she’d been able to see past the elezen family in front of her, the Lominsans had set up a checkpoint; robed arcanists, accompanied by sniffing carbuncles, were checking bags and pockets. The people carrying them didn’t even merit second glances. It should have put her at ease—and it had, a little, when she’d realized the assessors didn’t much care what race anyone was (they even let _beastmen_ in!)—but she was finally drawing closer to the gates and the relative freedom of a whole city to hide in, and the thought of one more roadblock felt like swallowing acid.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, she was setting her bag down on a table so that a black-robed elezen woman could poke through it with a round carbuncle standing point like a dog. “Anything to declare?”

Shit. She hadn’t expected to have to talk. “Um. N-no.”

“Good!” The woman’s smile was brief and sharp as a knife. “You’re all clear, welcome to Limsa Lominsa. _Next!”_

Taking a deep breath, she shouldered her bag and stepped through the gate.


	24. Obsolete (Evrard Briardionne)

It had taken him hours, but—finally—everything important was packed into one small bag at the foot of his bed. The chapel had been cleaned, altar swept, and Madam Lierresaux had been informed of his impending departure; she’d been a lay sister in her youth, and she would keep the place in good order while he was gone. One of the local girls was a Scholasticate student who’d been on the way to her ordination before the upheaval, and she was perfectly willing to read Mass until her classes resumed. Busari…well. For reasons Evrard still couldn’t understand and refused to press him on, the Xaela was determined to stay around and help, and Evrard was grateful for it.

He could walk to the Forgotten Knight and fetch his bird and leave for Eorzea _right now_ , if he wanted. Nobody would hold him back. Still, he stood in the door of his chambers and hesitated. _I have a life here. I have people who depend on me. I…I am a priest, and should I not lead my flock?_

In his mind’s eye, he saw again the shadow of a white dragon’s wings. He saw the war waged on the very Steps of Faith as Nidhogg’s rancorous shade was finally slain. He saw the people of Ishgard— _his_ people, the poorest of the Brume—united as one and striving heavensward, throwing off the shackles that had kept them in their place as the foundations of the Holy See shattered.

_No. They don’t need me. Not anymore._

He turned and walked out into the cold.


	25. Sacred (Rrisya Otombe)

Moon lilies, tied carefully to the treehouse rafters around the smokehole. She’d been the one to do that; her aunt Ristriss’s back had gone out. Her grandmother had shouted directions as though she thought _they_ were the ones hard of hearing.

_Menphina, light our path._

Carved bone bowls filled with antelope blood, reflecting eddies in the moonlight.

_Nophica, bring the bounty of the forests to us._

The antelope meat was still roasting in its rock-lined firepit at the base of the tree, making her mouth water, but she did her best to ignore it. They would eat later, after the ceremony, when she brought her parents and siblings back. Now was the time to clear her mind.

Her aunt Vayu took up the drum, beating a steady rhythm. Her voice rang out sharply. “Woman of the Otombe, how do you run?”

“Swiftly and silently, as the deer.”

Now it was her aunt Sahel, from behind her. “Woman of the Otombe, how do you hunt?”

“Swiftly and cleanly, as the hawk.”

Ristriss, voice soft as the reeds. “Woman of the Otombe, how do you come?”

She took a slow breath. “With spear in hand, with meat I have slaughtered and furs I have sewn, with eyes fixed on the moon above.”

Her grandmother smiled in the dim light. “Woman of the Otombe, whose child are you and why do you come?”

“I am Rrisya, daughter of Hahki, daughter of Mrit, and I come to be made a hunter of the clan.”

Once there had been more of them. Once, her grandmother had told her, such ceremonies would be for all the children of her age group, and there would be feasting and dancing long into the night after the rituals were concluded. Once, the Otombe clan had ranged far and wide, melting into the treetops like smoke and striking like lightning.

Now there was only her and her aunts and grandmother, and she held very still as Aunt Sahel passed the burning incense over her ears. Ristriss was readying her tattoo needles, smiling proudly as she held one up to the fire.

Menphina’s crescent moons burned on her shoulders for hours, but the pain was worth it.


	26. Foot In Mouth (Evrard Briardionne)

St. Endalim’s Scholasticate’s mess hall was always crowded; only a carefully reinforced social hierarchy prevented it from being noisy and chaotic as well. Evrard Briardionne, having survived his fifth year with his grades and honor intact, had been unofficially invited to sit at the prefects’ table with his roommate. Regardless of whether they’d only done it to copy his notes or not, he couldn’t help but be pleased. _My parents will be so proud when I tell them…_

And then, sometime between his second sip of tea and his third bite of toast, the actual conversations being held around him started to filter into his ears.

“Disgraceful—well, of _course_ we had to turn her out, the _shame_ —”

“Halone simply never meant elezen and hyur to marry, that’s just the way of things.”

“How shabby his robes are, but then I suppose his parents could hardly afford better.”

“Still, it brings down the standards of the entire seminary to be seen like _that_. Perhaps he ought to be down in the Brume with his fellows—”

Evrard lifted his head sharply, cold fury racing through him. _There_ , the two young High House scions snickering to each other— _there_ , the tiny orphan they were discussing just within earshot, face burning with shame. He stood up so quickly that his chair wobbled. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

Vairemont, his roommate, was already pale; like him, he had Gridanian blood, and it showed in the faintest tinge of gray to his skin. Somehow, he contrived to go paler. “Ev, no…”

He ignored him; one of the young men was smirking at them. “What? ‘Twas naught but the truth. If he can’t hold up the standards of the school, he ought not be here.”

Evrard took a deep breath, fists clenching. “Do we study the same book, my lord? The Enchiridion _I_ read says naught about the state of a man’s dress, but quite a bit about the state of a man’s heart—given that, I question whether you ought to be sullying our fair halls!”

Demerits would be stricken from the record with enough good conduct. The satisfaction of being able to punch a Dzemael in what fully three-quarters of the mess hall agreed was self-defense would last forever.

  



	27. Rivalry (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

The Bayaqud, as a rule, didn’t generally involve themselves in politics. They had their horses and sheep, and they kept the borders of their camps defended. That was all they needed, after all; anything else was just frippery.

Still, when she saw purple banners on the far horizon, young Gantsetseg scrambled down the lookout ladder as fast as her bare feet could take her. Dusk Mother preserve her, she wished she had her bow—but no, it wasn’t powerful enough, nor was her aim steady enough, to be of any use against anything bigger than a rabbit. _I wish I was older. Then I’d show them!_ In the meantime, all she could do was find an adult. “Kahkol! The Kahkol!”

She found her first father, who’d been napping against his horse’s flank. He almost fell over at her shout, tail lashing until he steadied himself and got to his feet. “What?!”

She took a breath, shifting from foot to foot with the effort of staying still for even a minute. “Purple banners—that’s Kahkol, right? They’re coming for our sheep again!” The last raid had been horrible, there had been blood everywhere and her uncle Ulii had almost _died_. This time, they’d have to fight even harder.

His eyes narrowed, limbal rings brightening. “Stay with Papa Batugai in the yurt and _don’t come out_ , no matter what you hear. Alright?”

Her face fell. “But—I’m good with a bow! I can fight!”

“Tseko.” Her papa knelt, placing a clawed hand on her shoulder. His eyes were dark and serious. “We all know you can fight, and someday you’ll make a fine hunter when you have more than twelve summers. But you are the only child Nhaama let your mama keep, so we have to keep you safe until you grow up.”

“… _Fine_.”

Hiding in the yurt wasn’t _so_ bad, really. Uncle Tsureg played the morin khuur for them, and she had plenty of baby cousins to entertain with shadow puppets. Still, part of her chafed at the confinement. Outside was battle—her mother’s whooping warcries, the thunder of hooves, the barks and snarls of their hounds. Outside was their tribe, defending what was theirs, while she was stuck in a dim, too-warm yurt and couldn’t help. (They would be fine. She had to believe they’d be fine.)

And then there was silence, and retreating hoofbeats. Her mother opened the flap, face drawn and quiet. “We yet live. But the _bloody Azim-blasted bastards_ made off with ten of our sheep.”

Gan let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. There’d be more fighting, then. She’d be ready.


	28. Prophecy (Ritanelle Soleil)

_Look ye where the sun doth rise, see crimson embers, dark’ning skies. Look ye where the sun doth fall, see azure lost amidst the squall._

She’d heard the words, of course—through her linkpearl at first, and then from Urianger himself. A weird saying, she’d thought at the time. Prophecies were always vague like that, so she’d never bothered paying much attention. _“Show me a prophecy that says what I’m having for dinner, and I’ll be impressed.”_

And then another call had come through her link, jolting her out of bed at a frankly obscene hour of the morning. “All hands! All hands to Ala Mhigo, the push begins at dawn!”

The battle had been chaotic; her legs still shook with the adrenaline, but all she could remember were flashes. _Miasma. Ruin. The choking, gurgling screams of her opponents. The crackle of flames. Arenvald distracting their enemies, leaving her free to breathe._

_Leaving her free to roar, aether crashing through her in a rush of scales-wings-fangs, as Bahamut screamed to a facsimile of life._

“ _In Ysayle’s name!”_

She’d wondered, in the fleeting moments where she wasn’t fighting for her life, what Urianger’s words had been referring to. Garleans died too easily to be worthy of prophecy.

Her linkpearl crackled. “All primal-slayers to the main citadel. I repeat—seven _hells_ , all primal-slayers to the citadel!”

_But the only beast tribes around here are malms away—_

Light flared in her peripheral vision, and she looked up.

Shinryu roared.


	29. Frost (Evrard Briardionne)

Evrard had been blessed with a reasonably accurate internal clock, and so he knew that somewhere on the other side of his half-shuttered windows there was probably sunlight. Not that he could _see_ any of it; even if the light wasn’t blocked by the surrounding buildings, last night’s weather had fused to the glass in a thick, vision-distorting sheet. Outside of the pocket of warmth he’d managed to create under his secondhand quilts, the rest of Ishgard might as well be frozen solid.

 _And_ he still had to get up. The chapel needed to be swept, and the fire stoked. The kitchen, freshly-stocked with real meat thanks to Busari (Xaela or not, the man was a blessing straight from Halone and he half thought he could kiss him just for that), needed to be wrangled into somehow producing meals for anyone who might stop by. _And at some point I really ought to see about saying Mass before the bishops see a reason to visit…_

The wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes, and he groaned and pulled the covers over his head. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt, surely. He could be well-rested and warm by the time he started the day, and the world wouldn’t crumble out from under him if he slept a bit late.

Under the covers it was warm and quiet as a cave, like the stories his grandmother had told him of their ancestors in Gridania. It was _safe_. He felt his heartbeat slowing, drifting on a lake of dreams.

And then, of course, someone knocked on the chapel door.


End file.
